


Thirteen Paper Sailboats

by hawkflyer667



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, a bit of a goodbye fic, like empty friends at empty tables from les mis, sad as hell, see if you can guess who they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkflyer667/pseuds/hawkflyer667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a time for love, a time for loss, and a time for acceptance. Merlin makes thirteen paper sailboats and lets them go down a river, taking his memories of Camelot with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirteen Paper Sailboats

**Author's Note:**

> See if you can figure out who is who! I tried to make them all obvious. Some are lesser-known characters.

Thirteen paper sailboats. 

Thirteen paper sailboats of loss.

One red. One gold. One orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple.

So on and so forth. Each folded so delicately out of construction paper by shaking hands from eyes blurred with tears. It was a day of remembering those who fell—of honoring those who fell serving their country in wars or just in peace, of remembering those who you once left behind.

Thin handwriting that once may have been loopy, now just a permanent scrawl against the back of the tiny paper sailboats. 

The flickering lights of a hundred little candles, placed so delicately on the shore so hundreds of people could let their sailboats drift down the river.

Among others, but alone.

White sailboat: for the start, crisp medical whiteness of a piece of parchment waiting to be scribbled on and covered in notes. For the daisies in the window to keep the room cheery even on the darkest of days. For the white hair that hung around a scraggly face and revealed a warmth unparalled.

Young children watched the boat drift away downstream and the tears hit the water.

Brown sailboat: for the dark skin of the one who knew bravery—of the one who embodied protection. For the brown of his rucksack so casually thrown over his shoulder to the dark warmth of his mahogany eyes. To the brown of the house he kept so orderly and clean despite the clutter in which he lived.

It spiraled in the eddies but kept moving—none of these little boats would capsize. Not tonight.

Orange sailboat: for the scrunch of his hair when it hit the right light, belaying its simple tan and illuminating into the warmth of a fire. For the fires always tended and kept roaring even when the rest had fallen fast asleep. For the sunsets he always claimed were his favorite part of day, and the dawns that captured them. To the warmth but fire of his attitude when it came to protecting the kingdom he held most dear.

Like the man it symbolized, this little boat charged forward, conquering the river and glowing in the candlelight, not bothered by the faulty folding due to trembling fingers.

Pink sailboat: for the pink of his cheeks when he laughed too hard or drank too much. For the wide expanse of his mouth when he talked and talked and talked. For the metaphorical aura that seemed to emit itself from every frolicking step. For the pink ribbons he loved to tie in the mane of his horse. To the warmth of his friendliness to everyone he met, and the pink bordering on red to those who he disliked.

The boat only was made halfway this time before it fell from frozen fingers, spiraling downstream in a haphazard lilt that seemed to fit.

Gray sailboat: for the rock that was first thrown to introduce himself. To the steady hardness of his character and the dependability of his personality. To the silent but supportive attitude he held. To the silver chainmail and the way gray can seem to shimmer with every color of the rainbow when the light hits just right. The way gray can be buffered into silver until it shines. The gray of platemaile and the gleam of swords. The sharp loyalty of gray turned silver.

The gray boat collided with the pink and seemed to make a good pair—the sturdy craft supporting the lilting one as they floated along together.

Dark Blue sailboat: for the courage of the solider that was so strong in blue. For the expanse of the dark sky, splattered with stars before it turned dark—the blue enchantment of wander-lust. To the glow of the spear that finalized his first entrance. For the deepness of his loyalty, embraced forever in the deepest of blues. To the color of his gaze while thinking avidly. The cool power of blue turned cold. 

The boat easily caught up with the rest, spinning, taking its rightful place among the others.

Yellow sailboat: for the sun on playful childhood evenings. For the child’s cowardness that was replaced by the man’s bravery. For the warmth of acceptance and the glow of love. For the gold of power replaced by the yellow of instinctiveness. The way yellow can symbolize both a child’s sense of wonder and sunflowers in the field or the light flickers of a fire’s embers on a late afternoon.

While this little boat lagged behind the others, its color somehow seemed right at the end of the parade—the tear stains turned part of the yellow into a golden-brown. 

Purple sailboat: for the way the lilac of her dress matched the flowers she would pick to lighten up the room. The way she wore the royalty well, as if she was always meant to have it. The way purple can be warm and protective—the color of a nursery, a young girl, sweet and innocent—or dark and mysterious, a cool silky color that seems to ask as many questions as it answers. The way the purple held its own secrets and can hold itself high.

The boat bumped into the brown boat before spiraling away, as if it was doing its own little dance. A young girl pointed at it and seemed to laugh. It seemed right, in a way.

Green sailboat: for the way green can be life and can also be pestilence – by the way green can seem so innocent, the way the grass grows and the trees can consume with life. The way her dress shimmered and the world looked when as a girl she used to enter it. The green of jealousy as another woman can usurp her place and the green of pestilence as rage can consume from the inside out. The green of life consumed by the green of death.

It was almost difficult to release but it fell into the water with the rest and floated on its own current.

Black sailboat: for the cloak he wore when he died—for the way that night has a way of recalling its own. For the black of mystery, of confusion, of false identities and miscommunication. Of making shadowy deals and then double-crossing in the middle of the night. The black of swiftness, of smart, of the depths of loyalty. Of dark eyes and dark hair. Of the ink of a tattoo stained above a heart. Of accidents—and of forgiveness.

Without as much black paper, this was smaller than the others. Somehow that seemed to work.

Sky blue sailboat: for the open range of sky she used to explore—for the freedom she used to long for. For the way she described the water, open and beautiful and forgiving to even the most wretched of creatures. For innocence and inexperience but also an independence no one could take away. A sky blue voice, flowing like a breeze. A whisp, open, like air. A caress and an open invitation to the life she could never have had. For the tears – soft and gentle, that dappled her cheeks. 

This was folded with more care than the others. Protected and dropped into the water with a bit of a push—unshackled with expectations and desires like the others. Free as the wind under which she sailed.

Teal sailboat: for the freedom of blue but the grounding of earthly desires. From the yearning for the life and the freedom once known but never allowed, to the shackles of the earth and Her call. For the connection with the life in the ground but the feeling of wind against the mountaintops. Of teal eyes—the reflection of the water during a storm, green and blue and muted with gray. Of shades, of reflection, of hiding. Of dark caves and open expanses of warm plains. 

This one was almost deliberately placed—as if an apology for all that came before and all that came after. A promise voiced by a gesture.

The final boat.

The most important boat.

The one crafted with soft hands and heavy, heart-wrenching sobs that drew the eyes of passerby. The one that was only half-formed – thick and heavy folds on one side and sloppy ones on the other, as if not wanting to believe this person was truly gone.

Red sailboat: the red of passion. The red of blood, yes, but also the red that enlightened cheeks in a blush of rosy red that seemed to radiate across even the most stern of faces. The red of the warmth that blooms in a stomach or a heart at a whispered word or a shared smile. The red of glory, of battle, of bravery and honor. The red of chivalry, a cape draped over a ragged shoulder. The red of lips, bit in fear or worry without anyone noticing. The red of a skin after a massage or flushed from a workout. The red of rage, horrible, blinding rage, and the red of forgiveness and foolishness. The red of love.

The last boat was the hardest to relinquish. It left, but not easily.

It left, downstream, with the heart of the one who left it behind.

Merlin stood on heavy, trembling legs and walked away, back to his single flat—the memories of all he’d lost floating downstream behind him, with his prayers for acceptance and forgiveness.

With them, he let them go.


End file.
